


Mind The Gap

by misanthropyray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, London Underground, M/M, PWP, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John convinces Sherlock to get on the Underground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind The Gap

**Author's Note:**

> Contains gratuitous frotting with a dash of voyeurism for good measure.  
> Kindly beta-ed by Alizirin_NYC.

“Absolutely not.”

“Sherlock, it’s raining, there aren’t any taxis anywhere and it’s only a few stops. We’ll be there in no time.”

Standing on the corner of the pavement, Sherlock desperately cranes his neck in alternate directions, straining to see the comforting orange glow of a taxi light in the distance. The rain is heavy and unrelenting; driving down on to the pavement and forming trickling lines of black filth draining off into the road. John shifts restlessly from foot to foot, edging closer to the tube station entrance. Admitting defeat, Sherlock lets out a low growl of annoyance, turning sharply and sending his sodden coat tails fluttering out behind him, scattering droplets into the puddles below.

It’s 17:30 and office workers are gravitating towards the station entrance in droves, newspapers held high to stave off the rain. Sherlock strides past John who follows after him, and in a moment they’re descending on a crowded escalator. Any kind of movement has been choked off by the impossibly slow-moving crowds and Sherlock is visibly impatient, towering over John on the step above him. In time, the steps sink into themselves and John leads the way, cutting through the masses with an unending stream of “sorry” and “excuse me” as they twist through the underground labyrinth. The platform is crowded and stifling as they make their way to the far end, finally coming to a halt in front of a hazard sign with a diagram of someone being electrocuted. 

A breeze pushes out from the dirty blackness of the tunnel, gathering speed and pushing the sodden curls of Sherlock’s hair across his forehead. The train leaks a sickly, yellow glow into the darkness of the tunnel before emerging out into the harsh lights of the station, speeding only inches away from the dense mass of commuters teetering on the edge. It comes to a stop with an angry squeal of the brakes before doors on every carriage open simultaneously. More people spew out from the packed train into tiny unpopulated passageways through the masses, before the crowds begin to crush themselves into the free spaces left inside.

John huddles into the curved arch next to the door and Sherlock stands in front of him, slowly edging closer as the space fills with people. A high pitched beeping sound fills the carriage and the doors close, leaving the passengers to adjust to the space inside. The train shunts forward unexpectedly, sending the solid mass of people lurching one way then back. Sherlock is caught slightly off balance and falls forward into John, pressing their bodies together. He reaches out to the handrail reflexively, finding John’s hand and wrapping his own around it. Looking down, half of his mouth twitches up into a smile, dissolving some of the annoyance that has wracked his features the moment they stepped out of the rain.

He doesn’t lean back from the contact, keeping his chest flush against John’s. John had been uncomfortable enough before the loss of his last few inches of personal space and he looks up at Sherlock questioningly, although he’s not entirely displeased by the contact. The case has been going on, rather stubbornly, for nine days now and John has never been one to accept abstinence with any grace.

During a case, Sherlock always keeps his focus. He’s married to his work and everything else is secondary: food, sleep and sex included. In a fit of possessive madness, he’d proclaimed that he wanted to be the only one providing John with sexual release (yes, in those ever so romantic terms), excluding John himself. In a fit of crazed devotion, John had agreed.

It hadn’t been much of an issue yet as, in the time since, no case has run over two or three days but now his body is betraying him and craving the contact. He inhales the thick, wet air of the carriage deeply, expanding his chest out against Sherlock’s and enjoying the weight bearing down on him.  
Taking this as consent, Sherlock thrusts a knee between John’s legs, forcing them apart. In disbelief, John furrows his brow at Sherlock before motioning with his eyes to the crowds around them, although making no effort to remove the nudging thigh from between his own. John accidentally catches the eye of an acne-riddled teen in oversized headphones and they both look away immediately, respecting the unspoken rules of eye contact on the tube.  
Sherlock leans down and speaks quietly into John’s ear, “Nobody’s watching.” He breathes hot breath onto his ear and nips at his lobe as though to punctuate his sentence. Looking round the carriage, it’s true; no-one is looking at them. No one is looking at anyone; all eyes are focusing on ceiling, floor, book or mobile phone.

Sherlock flaps his coat to fall to either side of John’s hips before slowly moving the intruding thigh; a scarlet flush flutters across John’s cheeks as he bites a smile from his lips.

At that moment, the train lurches into the next station, coming to a halt and tripping Sherlock so he’s suddenly crushed up against him again, although John strongly suspects that more than a little dramatics has added to the fall. As he rights himself, he draws his whole body up slowly along John’s, making the stiffness in his trousers painfully clear. John, until this point, has been resistant to this raging display of public indecency but is already half hard and the feeling of Sherlock sliding against him sends a shudder up his spine which continues radiating outwards to his extremities.  
People board the train behind them, staring fixedly down, unseeing of the show in front of them and unhearing of the increasingly laboured breathing. Sherlock’s hips are driving now, following a rhythm mimicking the slight rock of the train and John can feel all his moral objections to the whole situation slipping away from him to join the puddles of blackened, polluted water on the floor. He grips the hand rail for all he’s worth, flexing his knuckles beneath Sherlock’s grip and swallowing back a moan.

He looks at the faces surrounding him, checking for any signs that someone might have noticed them, any signs of shock or disgust but sees none. Sherlock’s face is a mask as he stares down at John, seemingly oblivious to the anonymous masses merely inches from them; the only sign that anything is happening at all is the occasional sucking in of his bottom lip, only to be bitten and dragged back out slowly, shining and swollen.

He uses the changeover at the next stop to adjust his position slightly, so he’s leaning across John against a Perspex partition and reducing his height by a few inches. Their hips suddenly on a level, Sherlock speeds up his grinding, rubbing their hard lengths together and rucking up the fabric separating them. John can feel a damp patch spreading inside the material and a curling heat in his abdomen. He feels the close atmosphere of the train against his skin, the combined sweat and breath of the capital, and his body pinned in place by the circling, insistent hips and lithe chest and a mess of long legs. Feeling is all he has in this moment as the sounds of the train and the crowd fade into the distant background and his vision is mostly obscured by Sherlock’s shoulder as he presses forwards; all he can see and smell and feel is Sherlock.

John’s not sure when he stopped breathing, but it was probably soon after he started panting. He’s much, much too close to the edge now and the train is still packed to bursting. Sherlock’s face is virtually indecipherable but his thrusting has sped up and John thinks he can feel him shaking but that could easily be John’s own legs about to buckle beneath him, it’s impossible to tell for certain.

The hot pressure in his abdomen shifts and spreads and burns outwards into every cell in his body. His head jerks forwards and, in a last ditch effort not to cry out, he bites down hard on Sherlock's shoulder. He must have guessed right about Sherlock being close too, because his brow furrows and his hand clamps down over John’s on the handrail.

 _How does he manage to stay so composed, the bastard?  
_  
When John manages to detach himself from Sherlock’s shoulder he looks up to see a suited business man looking back with a raised eyebrow; their eyes lock for a second before he returns to rustling the pages of his Financial Times.

John’s lets out half a laugh and buries his face into the fold of Sherlock’s coat as it burns with embarrassment.

“The next station is Lambeth North. Alight here for the Imperial War Museum,” chimes the automated announcer as the train slows into the station.

“Lambeth North? Shit, Sherlock we’ve missed our stop.” 


End file.
